CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- Tanqueray and tonic please, barkeep. And for God's sake, hold the fruit, you damn dirty ape!
Goodbye, limes. Goodbye, lemons. Goodbye, maraschino cherries and that stupid trick weird people's tongues do with the stem. Goodbye, bleu cheese-stuffed olives, I'll miss you most of all. And goodbye to Hepatitis A, B and C.
My roommate, Chris T., is absolutely convinced that hepatitis can be contracted through a drink at a bar. More precisely, through the handled accoutrements floating in that watered-down booze I'm spending $7 a cocktail on.
T., a.k.a. Theo, theorizes that the bar staff probably gets under their own skin when chopping up the various cocktail insundries-- lemons, limes, etc. And when they do cut themselves, they don't throw away the food and don't clean the knives properly.
And since I'm borderline O.C.D. just for giggles, T.'s irrational issue has become my issue as well. It's like that old "step on a crack, break your momma's back" sidewalk game from childhood -- I don't put much stock in the threatened cause-and-effect but, nevertheless, I acquiesce all the same.
To this day, my mother has neither a broken back nor hepatitis. That's good news since the most common transmission of the disease is gestational, e.g. mother to her unborn child.
Now if only I could infect others with my obsessive compulsions, oh wait, you're already reading Lukateake.
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Technorati: Chicago, Hepatitis, Drinking, Lukateake
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